The Universal Law of Attraction
by Talitha Koum
Summary: 'John can do better. But disillusioned women with the brain span of Anderson's head lice are what John does best.' Pre-slash.


**The Universal Law of Attraction: **We attract that which we allocate our attention, wanted or unwanted.

_A/N: Because I have a buttload of Sherlock/John ficlets in my Docs and I need somewhere to put them, dammit!_

_Warnings: Language, Sherlock's train of thought: excessive parenthesis, and unadulterated fluff._

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

**Prompt: Dancing, bondage, and John Watson in a tuxedo. **(Artistic liberties were taken for prerequisite number two. :D) Enjoy!

oOo

Sherlock is forced to read the same sentence two times for lack of comprehension.

The last time this happened, he was under the influence of cocaine and he momentarily confused _Fanti Zi_ and _Jianti Zi_.

He's _fighting a losing battle_, to coin a phrase, so he lights the idiom on fire in his mind because he's never been a particularly graceful loser. He closes his book in his lap. Watches John futz with his hair, standing square in front of the hearth, all symmetry and clean lines and he seriously considers pitching the annal of (decidedly NOT) apiculture at Dr. Watson's head because—_Christ, John! Enough!_ Sherlock folds the desire to evoke mayhem neatly, origami and hospital corners. Locks it in a cupboard in his Mind Palace for later observation. Rests his chin on the back of his hand. Observes his flatmate's meticulous attention to detail. The realization she's a New One sets his teeth on edge. He can deduce her age, her measurements, even her bloody astrological sign from the fastidiousness of John's primping.

Tall. Blonde. Gemini. She's a twenty-something—God, how he _hates_ twenty-somethings—and he can safely infer that while her vocabulary is marginally better than John's previous affaire d'amour (a primary school teacher whose overuse of the word asinine belied her unencumbered stupidity), John can do better.

But disillusioned women with the brain span of Anderson's head lice are what John does best.

Symmetry, symmetry, symmetry. A blank page. Stark, white, and _boring_.

Needs letters. Words. Sentences, paragraphs, epithets. Chopin's Prelude No. 15. No, better yet, ink spatter. Like blood. Like fingerprints. Black as pitch. Yes.

Sherlock blinks. Pulls himself from that seductive corner of his mentality, his errant thoughts flitting around the base of his skull like embers wafting in the dark.

Later.

Watches John dust the lapel of his coat, instead.

As much as Sherlock loathes workaday observations, an aberration in John's pre-date routine has unwittingly snared his attention. He is more than familiar with his blogger's titivation. A shower, a shave, a spot of product in his hair. The latter especially, as John deigns it necessary to primp—the proverbial cherry on top—in the middle of the living room where Sherlock doesn't have to pretend he's not observing his mannerisms _like some nature documentary_. (John's words.) Insomuch, Sherlock wagers he can style John's hair himself. (Query: He wonders if John would let him?) But this…urbane air. Black tie. Pleated shirt, turndown collar. It annoys Sherlock as badly as John's laborious typing. Only, somehow, worse. Because John's predilections are Sherlock's predilections in that Sherlock has acclimatized to John's comings and goings and in-betweens. His gentle asymmetry. (Inconspicuous John Watson. Straight laced, but unassuming at a glance. A smear, a smudge. A lovely blotch. A paradox for the ages.) Inadvertently, the smallest of snafus in John's routine piss Sherlock off.

He resists the urge to steal John's gun and shoot the wall.

John turns around, feet shuffling. "Well. How do I look?"

Sherlock deduces the necking John hopes this evening brings. It's obvious in his pressed pants, his shiny shoes, and the half-assed Sean Connery emulation. He still hasn't forgiven John for _Dr. No_, but has yet to delete it. "Shaken and not stirred," he intones, opening his book again.

John frowns. "Too much?"

Skims the same, damn line for the third time. "Oh, good Lord. If sexual congress is your concern, don't worry. Your New One is, as they say, a sure thing." He smiles big, painfully bogus, before his facial expression reverts to neutral territory almost immediately.

"How do you—" John closes his mouth. Turns to face the mirror again, straightening his tie. "Nevermind. I didn't tell you I had a date, but I didn't have to because you've deduced everything about Mary in my, my cufflinks. And the thread count of my rental tux. Is that it?"

"Don't be _asinine_," Sherlock lobs.

"Just so you know, I have more on my mind tonight than sex." Their reflections share a tandem glance and John is dangerously close to a giggle fit when Sherlock's smirk borders on the verge of indecency. "This is a chance for me to rub elbows with some of the most skilled practitioners in London."

"A beautiful woman on your arm will not counterweigh your two left feet."

"I don't have to dance to mingle."

_Poor bastard thinks he's on to something._ Sherlock bemoans John's naiveté. "This twenty-something of yours. She can dance." It isn't a question. "She'll grow bored of your tangential methods. And I've already established she's a tart. I submit she will ditch you and snare herself a brain surgeon."

"Not everyone is as susceptible to boredom as you, Sherlock."

"Tu as le corps d'un chien et le QI d'un enfant de cinq ans."

"Oh, shut up."

Sherlock stands to his feet. His book falls to the floor with a _thud_. "Come here. I won't have you humiliate yourself."

"What?" John regards him with some reservation. "You're going to teach me how to dance?"

"No, John, I'm going to wrestle you to the floor and impede your attendance with nothing but a string. _Of course I'm going to teach you how to dance_." Sherlock pauses. Considers. Claps his hands behind his back. Walks heel to toe, approaching John smartly, airs and graces all but oozing from his person. He can practically hear John thinking the words: _Damned rich people._ "Rather, I'm going to evict this cumbersome sense of self-doubt you seem to entertain on the subject of your—" Sherlock bounces on the balls of his feet, once, nearly imperceptible. "—lightness of foot."

"Are you high?"

"On?"

John is not amused. "I'm pants at dancing."

"Yes, you are. I didn't say I would teach you to dance _well_, but a little confidence will go a long way. These so-called skilled practitioners of yours. Too self-absorbed to waste their time scrutinizing the likes of you, someone whom they believe garners little of their attention—stupid of them, obviously—so anyone who bothers to analyze your performance on the dance floor will not be an issue."

John can't decide whether he's been insulted or not. Sherlock can tell by the purse of his lips.

"John, there are three types of people in this world. The type who can't and won't, the type who can't and do poorly, and the type who can't and convince others they can."

"Are you saying nobody can do anything?"

"_People_, John. _People_. Not nobody." He looses all trace of pomposity when he explains, "We aren't people."

"That makes us what, then?"

Sherlock hedges, "There are exceptions to every rule."

John can't help but smile. Finally, he relents, holding his arms at an angle indicative of a waltz. "And this? This won't embarrass me?"

"Pregenual anterior cingulate cortex," Sherlock huffs. Like he's to explain the Münchhausen Trilemma to Molly's Siamese, Steven. (Who names their cat Steven?) He takes John's left hand in his right hand and places his left hand on John's shoulder, as John will be leading. "A thumb-sized region in the brain that determines the range of emotional response to, say, accidentally tripping in public. Or slipping the world's only consulting detective your phone number." (Elicits a chuckle from John. Noted and saved.) "Embarrassment involves a social element. Guilt, pride, shame and embarrassment all tend to occur in the presence of others."

A beat of silence.

"In case you've forgotten, Sherlock, you're others."

"Irrelevant. Now, box step. Show me what you can do."

John clears his throat like he does when he's uncomfortable and pointedly stares at his feet. Steps forward.

Sherlock sighs an insufferable sigh.

"What?"

"John, please. Look at your partner, not your shoes."

John glares and Sherlock muses, briefly, that his verve was probably something of a deterrent for Afghani insurgents. "Sorry," John says, but he doesn't mean it. Because John Watson does not apologize for his shortcomings. He compensates.

Which gives Sherlock an idea. "Allow me to demonstrate." Switches hands. John's expression is a mixture of bewilderment and horror. "You be the New One."

"The tart?"

"So you admit it." Sherlock steps forward.

"You're the one who said—"

"And you're the one who didn't bother to correct me." Sherlock guides John to follow him around the chairs, prodding his arms to elevate. "Excellent," he praises John's improvement. His anger has its precedence and ire rules in his favor. He has forgotten to be embarrassed, forgotten to give a rat's ass whether he's dancing in the arms of a man or the twenty-something Gemini named Mary. Sherlock, pleased with the results of his obfuscation, pivots on the second count of one-two-three. Redirects John to lead. His fine-tuning is otherwise ignored because John is giving him an earful: _Mary is really a pleasant girl. Honest. And while she may be a tad young _(Oh, John, don't fool yourself…)_, she's witty and smart and drop-dead gorgeous. _(Sherlock wonders if it's her Golden Ratio of a figure [He suppresses a shudder—dull.] or her vagina John finds most appealing?)

"—are we clear?"

Sherlock reassesses John's diatribe. Stripping his previous thoughts on pedophilia and vaginas (A bit Not Good?) and varnishing the background noise (I.e., John's sermon on the sanctity of First Dates.) to see and hear and process and _bloody hell_ _John can be so tiresome_. "I promise not to say a word to her."

John's grip tightens.

"Or to you about her while she's in the room," Sherlock snaps, wrenching away. "And you're welcome," he adds when John turns toward the kitchen. "You're a fine dancer when you're incensed."

John snorts, "That's excellent news, yeah. I'll just. Scowl all evening, shall I?"

Sherlock returns to his chair. Has yet to retrieve his book. Spots it on the floor by his feet. Frowns at its spine like it's the annal's fault for succumbing to gravity. "Think angry thoughts, Dr. Watson," he says acerbically. "Maybe your dishclout will think twice before she dumps you."

"Should be easy enough." John scans the countertops for stray experiments. (Wouldn't do for poor Mary to witness a bit of tongue on the chopping block, would it? Really _compromises Sherlock's evidence_ [John's most prized, prolific tour de force.] that this New One is soon to encroach upon their flat, their _Sanctuary a la Dysfunction_ [John's second favorite.]. He doesn't care if she's the one with the car. Dull. Stupid. Boring.) "Thinking angry thoughts. I'll keep you in mind." John presses the pad of his thumb against his forehead. "Right in the pregenual anterior cingulate cortex."

They stare each other down for exactly three seconds before they burst out laughing.

"You weren't serious, where you?" John asks after catching his breath. "About, ah, impeding my attendance with only a piece of string?"

"I never kid about impedance."

John sucks on the inside of his cheek. After a moment, he says, "Prove it."

Sherlock grins wickedly. "Grab the twine."

oOo

"I'm sorry, dear," Mrs. Hudson apologizes to the young thing ascending the stairs behind her. "The doorbell doesn't work, I'm afraid. Took a bullet, it did."

Mary falters. "A bullet?"

Mrs. Hudson chooses to avert an assuredly awkward explanation in lieu of rapping her knuckles against the open door. "Hoo-hoo!" she toots, sliding inside. "Dr. Watson? Sherl…oh."

Sherlock offers Mrs. Hudson his most debonair smile. "Mrs. Hudson! To what do I owe the—" He catches sight of the New One over his landlady's shoulder, looking about as grey around the gills as the severed head in the refrigerator. John is clawing at his face, the tips of his fingers brushing against Sherlock's nose and hooking on the corner of his lower lip. "Ah," he says. "Mary, is it? You're early."

Mary nods, her wide-set eyes darting back and forth from John, to Sherlock, to John again.

Mrs. Hudson is blushing like a Worcestershire orchard before harvest.

"You bastard!" John wheezes.

Sherlock clenches his knees. Holds John at bay, a single cut of twine taut across John's philtrum, below his nose. Sitting pretty in his lap, Sherlock purrs, "I've heard so much about you."

"_SHERLOCK!" _

oOo

_A/N: In English, Sherlock tells John: "You have the body of a dog and the IQ of a five year old."_

_The area where the philtrum and the nose connect is incredibly sensitive. Lots of nerves, there. You can restrain anyone with a single finger if done correctly. Try it, but be careful! _

_This fic is 'complete' for now, but once I find the time to add the other one-shots, I'll change it to 'in-progress'. God, this fandom. Just. I can't even! *dies*_


End file.
